


the best is over (and the worst is yet to come)

by agentpolastri



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hanahaki Disease, Unrequited Love, a lot of people are about to be mad at me, dark!eve, mostly s1 and s2 centric, the love actually do be requited tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentpolastri/pseuds/agentpolastri
Summary: “I must have flowers, always, and always.”― Claude MonetIn which Villanelle figures out before everyone else that there is not a happy ending.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	1. first love late spring

**01.**

When Eve plunges a blade into her abdomen in Paris, a change takes place in Villanelle’s body that has nothing to do with the searing pain suddenly overtaking every inch of her nerves. It fills her chest and branches out, roots taking hold in the pleural cavity, curling and enrapturing the alveoli in each lung and constricting them all at once. It hits her like a truck and backs over her crushed body for good measure, smearing the remains of her expectations and understanding of how her world truly functioned in a brilliant scarlet tire track.

You might as well have called her Nadia.

Maybe love wasn’t like it was in the rom-coms and the dramas. Maybe it could be something like this: painful, everlasting, immediate horror and regret in dark eyes when the owner realizes exactly what they’ve done. Love wasn’t waltzing in front of the Eiffel tower or drinking midday tea while locked in an amorous stare, it was wrenching a blade from the skin that it was buried in: unexpected. 

Really fucking painful, too.

**02.**

Villanelle doesn’t tell Gabriel where his inhaler went.

He spent about 45 minutes shuffling around the room like a bird with a broken wing, muttering to himself in French, letting strings of exhausted profanities litter the hospital room in pointed ways like _putain, merde, fils de pute_. He even spared a look to the underside of the bed despite the effort it took for him to lift the mattress. Once, she thought she saw his gaze flicker to the drawer of her bedside table, but as soon as he made eye contact with her, she watched the mere notion leave his brain through his increasingly pink ears. 

It was almost endearing.

“ _Tant pis pour toi,_ ” Villanelle quipped when he complained. Her line of sight didn’t leave the magazine that she held in front of her as she leafed through dozens of pages of French models. A page filled to the brim with flowers caught her attention. The model gave the dramatic impression of a peaceful drowning among orchids, the vivid colours framing fluttering eyelashes. A single petal graced her lips like the _final_ kiss of death. 

Villanelle turned the page. She thought she saw an advertisement for a new Gucci belt.

**03.**

The sausage shop bustled with people, as it had a tendency to during the mid-afternoon rush of customers who were preparing to fetch the ingredients for their evening meal. Villanelle was no exception as she pondered over the different flavours, examining the pink of each different variety with a scrutiny she tended to only reserve for food. She hummed lightly in deep thought, slowly moving along the glass display. Someone next to her sighed impatiently.

“Did you know there is a sausage with shredded gold in the filling?” Villanelle questioned to no one in particular. Her eyes danced with mirth when she turned her head enough to see Konstantin standing beside her, subtly pinched, impatient expression and all. How far could she push him today without the poor man suffering from a stroke?

“No, Villanelle, I did not,” he answered lamely. His attention upticked when he looked past her, and she followed his gaze to— _garlic_ sausages. Oh, no.

“Your wife is big _and_ she likes garlic breath? God, you disgust me sometimes,” Villanelle muttered, partially to herself, partially loud enough on purpose to let Konstantin catch as much as he needed to hear to get the meaning. It was also apparently enough incentive to finally make him speak up. She had been waiting for the last fifteen minutes for him to blow his top.

“ _What_ am I doing here, Villanelle?” Konstantin asked impatiently. “I am a very busy man.” He gestured to one of the clerks to pack the heinous garlic sausages.

“ _I am a very busy man,_ ” the assassin mocked, but shrugged with one shoulder nonetheless. “I wanted a second opinion on what kind of sausage to get, of course. Or maybe I just wanted to hang out with you,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up. “You know, _chill._ ” 

Konstantin stared hard at her for a long moment. He shoved a postcard at her chest, then grabbed a package of wrapped sausages from the clerk.

“Stop that, you’re creeping me out,” he said.

**04.**

Villanelle wheezes in Barcelona. 

She drags in a difficult breath and forces herself to sit across from the corpse of a Spanish politician bound to a tiny chair with an apple in his mouth. The apple was mostly for her own entertainment purposes. It was very red, like the one on the Twilight book cover. Too red to ignore. If she said it reminded her of blood, it would come off as too edgy, so she’d leave it at the vampire book and let her audience of one very frazzled Asian woman with amazing hair figure out the rest. 

It was like a bread crumb. Wasn’t there a story that had something to do with crumbs? Hansel and Gretel, maybe. She couldn’t focus enough to answer this very important question—her chest was aching with a bizarre pounding sensation. 

“ _God,_ ” she whispered to herself, pausing to rock forward and clutch at her body. “Is this what getting old feels like?” _Poor Eve,_ she thought. Sitting alone in the office with a dead body, she forced herself to laugh, even if it was sporadically interrupted with harsh, grating coughing fits. Petals spotted with deep crimson fluttered past her lips and into the air, floating downwards until they littered the hard mahogany of the politician’s bureau. 

_Just like Gabriel’s swear words,_ Villanelle thought numbly. _Just like that magazine._

“I should have gotten the Gucci belt,” she sighed to the empty room. She thinks that she hears Eve’s pealing laughter.

**05.**

There is an irony to be discussed when Villanelle finds herself in Paris again with no one other than Eve. She’s sure she could come up with something absolutely dripping with sentimentality, so much so that it’s inherently revolting to the two of them because their relationship has never really been like that. _Not yet, at least,_ Villanelle affords herself with false optimism.  
Paris was the opening to their theatricality, the introduction to the first act of what would become a harrowing game of chasing each other’s tails. Unbeknownst to Eve, it would also become the destination for their final act. Villanelle’s final curtain call with not even a bow to the audience she so dearly cherished. As it stood, she could barely lift her head from the ground to hack up another bushel of orchids all over herself.

She could hear Eve’s footsteps rapidly clicking around her. It was supremely unfair that Villanelle managed to drag herself to her old apartment, only to find that it was already inhabited by the woman she least expected. In Eve’s defense, it _was_ very chic. She briefly wonders if the other woman had dealt with the cleaners from the Twelve herself, or if she had simply waited it out elsewhere. It would have been pretty hot to see her use that knife again. Preferably on someone else. 

“Villanelle, I can’t find anything about—about _coughing up flowers,_ ” Eve said as she kneeled next to the assassin sprawled in the middle of the kitchen. Her voice held a distinct edge of panic as her eyes roamed over the petals sprinkled on her shirt and on the floor. 

“It is fine,” the blonde whispered, eyes fluttering closed. There was an old adage about flowers and unrequited love, but Villanelle was certain she didn’t have the energy to explain that to Eve. She felt a hand snake around the back of her head to cradle it against the hard floor as a makeshift cushion. Her chest pounded so badly, she was certain it would burst open at any minute, perhaps as a full-fledged flower bed. Maybe the Twelve would cut her up and plant her in their offices as decor. Her corpse would be worthy of a photoshoot, after all. 

“I’m still not sorry for stabbing you,” Eve said, and it catches Villanelle so off-guard that she wheezes out a laugh, even as she clutches at her chest and turns toward the older woman. She shakes her head as she chuckles and suddenly tears leak from the corners of her eyes and onto Eve’s lap. They don’t stop, just keep dripping silently as the assassin feels her body grow colder. 

“I’m not sorry,” is all Villanelle can muster before she feels the sharp pain of deeply buried roots squeezing the remaining air out of her lungs. Her hand grips the loose fabric of Eve’s sleeve like the last bastion of comfort that it is. Villanelle fights against the urge to close her eyes and only stares up at Eve’s face, watches long enough despite the darkness of her vision to see the other woman’s panicked expression slip off like a mask into cool indifference. 

Only heroes get the girl, anyways.


	2. when you leave me you take away everything

**01.**

Villanelle’s body starts to wake up to the low hum of hushed voices, one immediately pinpointed as Eve and the other completely foreign. Her head feels like it went through a build-a-bear: all cotton and soft. She laid there for a few moments, trying to process the fact that she was even fucking alive at this point in time. 

“How long before she wakes up? Will she be okay?”

“Anywhere from now until tonight. Change her dressing daily and don’t let it get infected.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve only seen this once, and the patient died shortly afterwards.”

“Do you think this one will survive, then?”

Sigh. “The prognosis is poor. Keep a close eye on her, Eve. I have to go.”

“Wait—can you come back tomorrow? Just in case?”

“You _do_ realize I could lose my job because of this, right? You have the supplies. Good luck.”

Villanelle heard the apartment door closing and silence for several moments afterwards. She thought that Eve left along with who she assumed to be a doctor, but instead noted the faint padding of footsteps in the kitchen. Eve milled around to tend to her own devices, dishes clinking together and the faint sizzle of something cooking on the stove. A delightful smell wafted to Villanelle’s nose. 

“Eve? What are you cooking?” She croaked. She swallowed thickly with her eyes still closed and felt congealed blood go down. Nothing like a nutritious breakfast after nearly dying. 

Glass shattered. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Eve cursed not too far away. “Up already?” 

“And ready for round two,” Villanelle replied, curling the corner of her mouth into a smirk. She finally pried her eyes open to see Eve kneeling on the floor, sweeping pieces of glass into her hand like there wasn’t a broom a mere few feet away. 

“I liked it better when you were asleep.”

“That makes the two of us, but someone decided to save me, remember? God, Eve, keep up,” Villanelle said. She lifted her head as much as she could despite every cell in her body screaming at her to not move a single muscle. A ratty, oversized shirt that smelled faintly of baby powder and laundry detergent covered most of her body, but she quickly hauled it away to look at the real damage: the bloodied bandages wrapped around her chest. 

It was so ugly, but it was from Eve, so perhaps she could let this one slide, too. It was like an accompanying gift to show off along with the stabbing scar. Oh, Konstantin would love to hear about this one. 

“I guess this makes us _eve_ -n, then,” Villanelle says when she’s done assessing the damage. She snickers at her own little joke. “See what I did there, Eve?” 

Eve, who had long since sat down in the middle of the kitchen floor surrounded by glass and Villanelle’s presence, groaned loudly. 

**02.**

While Eve busied herself with making sure her lunch didn’t burn to a crisp, Villanelle observed her surroundings. Not much had changed since she had lived in the apartment. A suitcase was situated in the corner (definitely Eve’s, by the look of all the drab clothing threatening to burst out of it), and even all of Villanelle’s clothes were still dangling in the closet. Wow. Maybe she could convince Eve to wear some. Introduce her to the finer things in life. Judging by the way she had smashed the champagne bottles during their last rendezvous, she was already well on her way to a life of decadence. 

Eve approached her with a steaming bowl of soup soon afterwards. She situated herself on a chair next to the bed. If she had asked, however, Villanelle certainly would have ripped out a few stitches while moving over to have Eve sit on the bed. 

Villanelle moved to sit up, reaching for the bowl and all, but Eve shook her head.

“Go down,” she commanded. 

“ _Eve,_ ” purred Villanelle, “all you had to do was _ask._ ” She watched for a reaction in Eve’s face but could find none, only a seriousness she saw from Konstantin when she had _really_ fucked up. Nonetheless, she lowered herself once more albeit gingerly, wincing in the process. This seemed to soften Eve’s gaze as she gently offered spoonfuls of soup to the bedridden assassin. 

She couldn’t believe that she was still alive. Those few moments on the hard wood of the floor while Eve cradled her head—Villanelle had fully believed that would be the last image she had ever laid eyes on. It wasn’t the softness of the other woman’s hands or the warmth radiating from her lap that left a lasting impression, though. It was the near imperceptible glaze that had slid over her eyes when Eve thought that Villanelle had fully gone. It was familiar, something she had watched once in the mirror while dragging a knife across some poor aristocrat’s neck. 

Like watching someone’s soul go deep down into their body until the spark of life completely disappeared. 

**03.**

Eve stopped when she realized Villanelle wasn’t going to accept another spoonful of soup. She lowered it into the bowl, looking like she was going to regret the next words that came out of her mouth.

“What is it?” She asked. 

Villanelle stared at her like she was trying to find something that wasn’t there. Eve could feel acutely that she was being analyzed and studied, mulled through the cogs and wheels that whirred in the assassin’s brain. This was probably what she felt like every time Eve even so much as glanced at her: always being tinkered with and picked apart to find a motive, to find why she said what she said or did or thought. 

“Why did you do it?” Villanelle probed quietly. Why revive her? Eve didn’t even have to do any of the hard work, just had to watch her fade away on the floor until a husk remained. Villanelle had killed people—Bill, for instance—had veritably made Eve’s life a living hell and knew it, even without her saying so. On that note, how was Moustache doing?

“I didn’t want to deal with a dead body in the apartment,” Eve bluntly replied with the energy of a weathered old woman that had simply had enough of life’s shit. She stirred the contents of the soup bowl and started gathering it into the spoon, intending to let the conversation die out on its own. 

“Say it,” Villanelle urged, once again sitting up as far as she could in the bed. “I want to hear you say it, Eve.” 

The spoon suddenly ceased all movement in the bowl, Eve’s hand stilling. She slowly looked up and met the Russian’s gaze. Her eyes could have bored holes through Villanelle as she leaned forward into her space, close enough to ghost her breath against her face. 

“There’s nothing to say,” Eve whispered in return before getting up and walking away to the kitchen. 

Villanelle’s chest throbbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the distance, sirens.  
> oh? what was that? you thought this would be happy? my hand must have slipped
> 
> let me know what you think in the comments! any and all feedback is appreciated. i will MAYBE add another part to this [winks]
> 
> catch me at @agentpolastri on tumblr.


	3. you could be my silver spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking mirrors, plain pizza, and one bar soap later.

**01.**

Eve heads out earlier that morning without much fanfare aside from a curt utterance of “I’m going out, try not to burn down the apartment while I’m gone”. That was absurdly hilarious to the assassin considering that technically _she_ was the owner, but all she could do was scoff before the curly-headed woman had slammed the door shut.

Now that the other woman had left, Villanelle could do more than sit up without another set of eyes on her from the kitchen. She spent several minutes hyping herself up despite already feeling like she was being burnt alive from the inside out. Fingers of searing pain clutched at her ribs and threatened to tear apart sinew and muscle every time she so much as _breathed_ too hard. Idly, she wondered if there were painkillers in the bathroom. 

Time to find out. She needed a good shower anyways.

She managed to heave herself off of the bed and across the apartment in a record time of seven minutes and forty-two seconds. Every second was absolute torture, even worse than _intentionally_ wearing a pair of tie-dye crocs or consistently donning a frumpy turtleneck with a men’s parka. Oh, did she think that out loud? Oops.

“Come on,” Villanelle muttered. The world around her teetered precariously as she roughly threw the sink cupboard open and blindly felt for a bulky plastic container— _there._ One, two—she stopped counting, opted to dump a complete handful of pills into her palm and slam them into her open mouth. The Parisian tap water tasted like dog shit going down her throat with the red capsules but it was the closest thing she had experienced to ecstasy since Eve had—well, since _Eve._ End of sentence. Period.

Villanelle’s reflection stared back at her in the mirror, pale and gaunt and entirely too self-satisfied for the circumstances she found herself in. Grease and sweat shone across the top of her forehead. She fell a little left of a punchline about shiny-headed bald men and communicating with satellites in space. _Ew._

A smile in the mirror caught her attention and the assassin watched as what her mind had dubbed as _second-rate Villanelle_ pointed to the large ornate tub in the corner of the room, even going so far as to wave her hand under her nose and wearing a grimace.

“That is a great idea,” Villanelle agreed. She nodded at the reflection which gave a silent thumbs up in response. “Thank you for that.” 

She took one step away from the sink and promptly collapsed. 

**02.**

Eve came home to eerie silence. Worse, she came home to silence accompanied by pills all over the floor, a broken champagne bottle, and Villanelle slumped over the toilet retching her guts up. 

Did Eve see this coming? The sad answer was _yes._ Yes, she did. 

She had no idea where Villanelle had gotten the champagne bottle from, though. On that note, the door rang several times. Harsh banging pierced through the silence once again before Eve went to the door. She looked through the peephole with the solid weight of a pistol in her hand. Her breath fanned back in her face with how close she was to the solid wood.

A ratty teenager with a pizza box peered back.

“I didn’t order a pizza,” Eve immediately says when the door opens. The delivery boy looks unamused. She remembers, vaguely, that she is in France, and fumbles for a word that isn’t in English.

“Pizza? _Non, pas moi,_ ” she spits brokenly, the vowels and consonants scattering disjointedly in the air between them. 

Eve ends up with a pizza and is several euros shorter than before. Later, the box reveals a pizza with not a single topping adorning it. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

**03.**

Villanelle comes to when her head is jerked back by the hair. A very pissed off Eve glares down at her, but then she wipes the vomit from the corner of her mouth with a cloth and helps her up from the floor, so really, who is winning here?

“She said I stink,” she slurred. Eve grunted in response, thrusted Villanelle’s arm over her shoulder and hobbled until she could set her down on a chair next to the bathtub. 

“Who?” Eve asked, out of breath and pushing the edge of a water bottle spout to Villanelle’s lips. The assassin grabbed the bottle with both hands and guzzled the contents like a child at three o’ clock in the morning, even completing the entire effect with short breaks for a gasp of air. She unceremoniously tossed it across the bathroom as Eve filled the tub and poured in _great value soap._

“I did,” Villanelle said. “Did she tell you? I did not ask for a bath.”

“Yes,” Eve replied automatically, then paused, realizing she had no idea what the assassin was talking about. “No. You vomited all over yourself. Don’t—” she smacks Villanelle’s hand away from her clothes, “—touch it.” 

Eve stripped Villanelle out of the baggy shirt. She was quiet during this process, only raising her arms to help. Gingerly, she stepped into the water while clutching Eve like a lifeline. The air still swam and the world still lurched, but she managed to sit in the warm water without falling again. Eve placed shampoo and soap within her reach along with a cloth.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” she said with the dirty shirt clutched in both of her hands, her form a shadow in the doorway as the evening Parisian light pooled around the curve of her shoulders. Villanelle’s head lolled to the side to regard her in silence. Neither one of them moved.

“I can stay if—” “Can you wash—” they both started. Eve laughed almost nervously, and Villanelle watched with a half drug-induced smile as she tucked a curl behind her ear. 

“Your hair?” Eve asked after another moment of simply staring at each other. 

“Yes,” whispered Villanelle. She felt the air move past her ear as the other woman dragged a chair to sit behind the head of the tub. Eve squeezed the contents of the shampoo bottle in her hand and quickly began lathering the suds into blonde hair. Her fingers flexed strongly against Villanelle’s scalp and massaged the roots. Eve didn’t proceed with the clinical efficiency Villanelle thought she would—here, she clearly took her time, the rough calluses of her fingertips possessing the same gentleness as the soft plush of her forearm braced against the assassin’s scapula. 

“Here, take this,” Eve spoke behind her, the deepness of her voice sending a vibration through Villanelle and goosebumps across her skin. She took the dry washcloth and covered her eyes with it as Eve poured warm water over her head and wrung out her hair. 

“You should get in with me,” Villanelle says suddenly. The hands in her hair freeze for a millisecond, then continue to wrap it in a fluffy towel. 

“Right,” Eve snorts. “My hair takes a little longer than this.”

“Maybe next time, then,” Villanelle edges with a secretive curve of her lips.

Eve sucks in the side of her cheek. “Maybe,” she eventually replies, something different in her tone this time. 

**04.**

Villanelle feels a strange and pointed solid pressure against the side of her head before Eve leaves her alone to wash her body, mentioning something about doing the laundry and “cleaning up the mess you made”. She realizes it was the warm pressure of Eve’s lips and promptly drops the bar of soap deep into the depths of the cloudy tub water. Villanelle knows before she even attempts to lean forward that it is a lost cause.

“Eve, I dropped the soap,” she called out, unable to keep a faint snicker because she was definitely very mature, please and thank you. Eve appears in the doorway like a ghost with her hands on her hips and Villanelle wonders if she really went to do the laundry. 

**05.**

Villanelle thinks that this second rendezvous in Paris is turning out much better than the first one. 

“Have you met Madame Tattevin?” She asked conversationally between pieces of plain pizza crust. She sat criss-cross on the bed while Eve had reluctantly drawn up another chair after Villanelle had cited that she needed company while she ate. She finally felt well enough to keep something that wasn't watery soup down for more than five minutes. An unidentifiable look crossed Eve’s face, and she shifted.

“No,” Eve replied. “The cleaners got to her. The old lady next door, right?” she questioned. Her fingers picked at a stray string coming off of her shirt, twirled it around so tight her skin began to darken until she tore it off completely. 

“Oh!” Villanelle said. Awkward silence passed between them. “Yes. She was a crooked old bat, anyways. It was good that something finally took her out. She was probably glad that they put her out of her misery,” she continued cheerfully. She bit into another piece of pizza crust. 

“Jesus,” Eve muttered to herself. A thought occurred to her. "Did you order that pizza earlier?"

Villanelle hummed in affirmation and took a noisy sip from her drink. 

" _Villanelle._ "

Maybe things were still a work in progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you think in the comments!!  
> catch me over at @topeve on tumblr. <3


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